Chapter 699: Legendary Shaman
Spells surged relentlessly across the battlefield. The space between Leon and the Dark Elves was churned by elemental storms, so intense that new tempests were suppressed by the constant clash of incoming magic.
The magical sigils on Clark's forehead seemed ready to ignite, flames rippling across them like a crown of fire.
A terrifying wave of magical power radiated from that spot. Anyone could see that this sixth-level Limit Spell was on the verge of erupting.
Elsa, together with a dozen Dark Elves, gritted her teeth and squeezed out every last drop of mana. Their magical markings were all dim, unable to stay lit, as every spell they could muster was cast without hesitation.
Anderson's face twisted into a strange mask as he manipulated the Arcane Wheel, casting spell after spell with all his might. Each heartbeat saw several fifth- and sixth-level spells unleashed into the fray.
The Heart of Blazeforge had already pushed the Arcane Wheel past its limits, mana overflowing in every direction. But now, that battered crystal was growing dim, its reserves nearly spent.
Even Seth, now only at Magus strength, was nearly out of mana, yet still couldn't pose a fatal threat to Clark. The fearless Dark Elves formed a wall of bodies, casting spells at a rate far beyond the rest.
Just as everyone teetered on the edge of despair, Leon arrived with Gale Ketcher.
Upon entering, Gale Ketcher raised his hands solemnly and began to chant an ancient, mournful orc ballad.
A force that seemed to pierce through time began to spread with Gale Ketcher's mournful song.
This power carried a desolate sorrow, irresistibly seeping into everyone present. Souls grew heavy with grief, as if every heart was on the verge of weeping.
In a trance, everyone seemed to glimpse visions through this time-piercing power.
On a barren wasteland, countless wounded orcs knelt, their faces resolute yet sorrowful. Ahead, rows of crude graves built from stones dotted the land.
Simple graves and tattered banners stood beside them, while vultures and flies swarmed the gloomy sky.
The harsh cries of crows echoed endlessly.
At a simple altar, a sorrowful, tearful shaman raised his withered hands, singing the mournful anthem.
As the song continued, the heavy clouds of resentment, death, and anger above the endless graves began to slowly dissipate.
Transparent orc souls rose from the graves, flying toward a distant beam of light...
...It is you who have borne the unyielding backbone of our race...
...Under the sky, upon the earth, orcs never yield...
...With blood and strength, we honor the rites...
As Gale Ketcher sang, the Dark Elves grew sluggish, many wearing pain-stricken expressions.
The flames on Clark's Limit Spellmark began to flicker, their terrifying power slowly dimming.
The sixth-level Limit Spell that was about to be cast started to waver. When Gale Ketcher finished his song, a white stream of light shot from the spellmark and vanished into the sky.
Clark's spell was cast nonetheless...
But the original sixth-level Limit Spell had become an ordinary sixth-level spell...
Sheets of fire rained from the sky, each fireball as large as a human head, streaked with black patterns—like magma and flame fused together, radiating intense heat.
The fireballs exploded, but Leon and his allies easily blocked them.
Hundreds of Undead Dark Elves struggled, and their spellcasting ceased. Each face twisted in pain and torment.
The torrent of spells cast by Anderson and the others instantly overwhelmed the Dark Elf undead. In less than ten seconds, the helpless horde was swallowed by the flood of magic.
Leon uttered three syllables, and the Dragon Staff flashed with light—three Spear of Vulcan, each over two meters long, descended from the heavens.
The dazed Clark made no move to evade. One Spear of Vulcan pierced his chest and pinned him to the ground. The remaining two followed, driving through his body and leaving three fist-sized holes in his torso.
Each Spear of Vulcan struck a vital point on Clark's body.
Then, golden-red flames began to flow over Clark's form. One by one, ethereal shadows flew out from within him—each the soul of a Dark Elf.
These souls wore expressions of relief; as they emerged, they vanished into nothingness.
At last, a glimmer of awareness returned to Clark's hollow eyes. He looked toward Elsa in the distance and, in a hoarse voice, murmured, "Princess... why are you here...?"
Then, as if remembering something, Clark's face twisted in terror. He shouted, "Princess, run! There is evil lurking deep in Nightfall Gorge. It's dangerous—go, go, leave this place, quickly..."
Before he could finish, another ethereal soul drifted from Clark's body and vanished into the sky.
Then everyone saw Clark's body begin to melt, his features blurring as he turned into a mass of black mud, sinking into the ground and merging with the earth.
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Elsa watched the spot where Clark vanished, her face full of sorrow. The Dark Elves stared blankly at the ground—once proud, now turned into undead upon entering this place.
To fall in battle defending one's home is an honor. But to be trapped between life and death, unable to live or die, is the greatest tragedy.
Leon let out a quiet sigh of relief. He'd made it in time.
When Elsa pointed out Clark and his sixth-level fire Limit Spellmark Slot, Leon suddenly understood much.
Why were these Undead Dark Elves impossible to kill? Why had Clark never died since his appearance? Why did the Dark Elves, who knew nothing of defense, protect Clark?
It wasn't because Clark had a chance to cast a sixth-level Limit Spell, but because all the souls of these Dark Elves were inside him.
These Dark Elves, controlled by evil power, were truly immortal. Only by killing Clark would they finally die.
So here's the problem: Clark had one chance to unleash a sixth-level Limit Spell, making him the strongest presence here. If he succeeded, Leon and the others would be doomed.
The power of a sixth-level Limit Spell was far beyond anything they could withstand head-on.